


Vulnerable

by pennflinn



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Drabble, Drinking, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, can be read either way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26446600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennflinn/pseuds/pennflinn
Summary: Six snapshots into the relationship between Arthur and Merlin throughout the years, and the many ways in which their vulnerabilities manifest.
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	Vulnerable

**Author's Note:**

> Like many, I have been rewatching Merlin during quarantine, and it's been such a wonderful source of comfort. The fandom, from what I can tell, is also so lovely, so here's a little something to hopefully give back.
> 
> I'm a gen writer at heart, but I was also a huge Merthur shipper back in the day, so you can probably find traces of that in here if you're into that kind of thing. Read and interpret however you'd like!
> 
> Enjoy!

Arthur wasn’t quite sure why he did it. He and Merlin knew each other well enough by now that the other man was sure to see through it all. Merlin knew how much Arthur genuinely cared for him, didn’t he? He was smart, no matter the insults Arthur hurled his way. Surely he could see through them.

Still, it was almost reflexive at this point. An impulse, perhaps born from a place of self-preservation. Arthur had to have tough skin, even with armor protecting it. He couldn’t let anyone see his heart. At least, that’s what his father had told him when he’d come crying years and years ago — crying over a girl who’d rejected his invitation to play marbles. Uther had laid the groundwork, then: Do not let them see your weakness, even if it is a weakness born of compassion.

It’s why he so often tacked on that insult to the end of his phrases.

 _“You sometimes are quite clever. For a blockhead.”_ _“Merlin, I don’t know what I would do without you. Probably hire someone competent.”_

Why couldn’t he say things straight? Why did the words leap from his tongue in their own self-defense?

Now, half-paralyzed by fear only a second before, he couldn’t help the smile that broke across his face when he realized that it was Merlin standing in the tunnel in front of him, looking shaken but very much alive. Arthur gripped his servant’s arm, and Merlin seemed to catch the undercurrent of relief.

“Were you worried about me?” Merlin said, half-joking to conceal the fact that he _definitely_ picked up on Arthur’s panic.

“No,” Arthur responded. “I was making sure we weren’t being followed.”

But Merlin was prepared. If you couldn’t be strong, you had to be quick, and Merlin was _not_ strong. “You came back to look for me.” It was that same sort of teasing, designed to keep Arthur on his toes, but always leaving the door open for honesty.

Arthur let his face fall to neutral. “Alright, it’s true. I came back because you’re the only friend I have and I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

Merlin’s eyebrows raised a fraction. “Really?”

But so it went. Even as Merlin questioned the sentiment, Arthur’s response was ready: “Don’t be stupid.”

Still, he thought he saw Merlin smile.

* * *

It was a rare thing, to watch a king sleep. Merlin insisted on the first watch, and it was a testament to their relationship that Arthur conceded without a fuss, bedding down with no one but a serving boy to keep him safe through the night. The woods creaked around them, and Merlin kept the fire low and dim, and the king slept.

Merlin usually looked out into the shadows of the forest, seeking movement, or else stared into the ever-changing flames. But occasionally he allowed himself to watch Arthur. Watch the even rise and fall of his chest. How easy it would be, Merlin sometimes thought, for the king to be taken unawares in this state. The thought kept Merlin alert, even after strings of long days and short nights.

Whenever the thought arose, he dismissed it as kindly as he could and just watched: the curling of a finger, the twitch of a foot, the fluttering of eyelashes in response to a dream. It was better to observe that way, Merlin thought, than to imagine anything different.

* * *

“Find out who did this,” Arthur commanded. “Report back as soon as you have more information. I will deal with them _personally_.”

“Yes, sire,” Gwaine said stiffly. His eyes flickered to the bed once more before he retreated, closing the door behind him. Gaius had also left, off to fetch some specialty herbs, and Arthur was glad for the solitude.

He looked back down at the bed, at the man who lay there. Merlin still hadn’t gained consciousness since he’d been found; bruises bloomed on his face and above the four broken ribs, around the strange-looking puncture marks below his collarbone that Gaius suggested were magic-related.

They’d found him wandering in the woods, delirious and only half-conscious. How he’d escaped, Arthur could only speculate — and he’d decided long ago that doing so was too much of a risk for them both — but Arthur could only thank fate for the fact that he and the knights had found the servant in the vastness of the woods.

“I didn’t tell—” Merlin had said then, gripping Arthur’s arm. “I didn’t tell them anything, I swear.”

Arthur looked at him now, not doubting a thing. Wondering why Merlin’s heart was tougher than his skin, after so long doing manual labor for a king that didn’t outwardly respect him. He looked so fragile like this, pallid and bruised. Arthur couldn’t ignore this, like he’d pretended to ignore mysterious scrapes and bruises and exhaustion after nights at the “tavern.” He ignored those instances because it was easier not to pry, because he could see that Merlin was incapable of or unwilling to peel back those layers for him.

But Arthur couldn’t ignore that guardedness now, because it was the very thing that had landed his servant here in such a state. He’d have to have words with Merlin later, tell him not to be such a big damn hero and stick to polishing armor.

But for now Arthur would sit here, praying that each breath would come as steady as the last, taking in each wound before Merlin had a chance to hide them. Big damn hero, indeed. Merlin would probably try to hide that, too. How stupid, that sometimes Arthur knew him so intimately and other times not at all.

* * *

It was always the same, the anniversary of Uther’s death. Merlin had been overly concerned the first year, fretting over Arthur’s health, ignoring the king’s too-harsh words. It had taken him an embarrassingly long time to realize the significance of the day.

Now, at least, he could prepare for it. Merlin knew that Arthur was not dying, when he refused food and woke up with a face the color of birch bark. Merlin knew that Arthur was not ill, when he quietly excused himself to his chambers for rest in the middle of the day.

Merlin intruded into that place only once. Rather, Arthur requested his presence, but something about it still felt like an intrusion. When Merlin creaked open the door, the air inside the chambers felt eerily still.

He’d caught a glimpse of Arthur then, just upon entering, before Arthur registered his presence. The king looked like a figure in one of the great paintings that hung in the castle: each brushstroke a sadness, precise lines overlapping to form a figure on the downward slope of some great unknowable tragedy. The way Arthur hunched, his form as still as the air into which Merlin entered; the way the red of his cloak seemed to dim; the way his hair stood disheveled from the crown that now sat perched in his hands. He had been crying, that much Merlin could tell, though the artist probably wouldn’t be able to capture the tears themselves.

“Sire,” Merlin ventured, unsure of his own voice. “The wine you requested.”

It was broken in an instant. A twitch signaled the release of tension in the line of Arthur’s jaw. His hands gripped the crown a little tighter. He turned toward Merlin, his face perfectly controlled. For a moment, his eyes and Merlin’s locked together, wordless. While the rest of Arthur’s face was perfectly calculated, his eyes were shadows.

“You can set it there, on the table,” Arthur said at last.

Merlin nodded and set the goblet on the table, next to a plate of fruit that had gone untouched. His fingers lingered on the scratched wood of the table before he turned to leave.

“Merlin,” Arthur interrupted. Merlin turned back. The king dipped his head slightly, released some more of that tension. “Thank you. Truly.”

“Of course,” Merlin said.

A dismissal was not needed. Merlin closed the door as quietly as he could, taking a moment to compose himself before leaving the still room behind him.

* * *

Arthur would have missed it if he’d been a second later in turning around. But as it was, he caught the unnaturally strong breeze that blew a soldier off of his feet; saw the golden light fade from Merlin’s eyes even as the man’s hand, palm outstretched, lowered. What had happened was clear, unmistakeable. Undeniable, rather.

There was just enough time to take a breath. A slow, measured breath that felt out of place in the heat of battle.

As though Merlin could hear the exhale, he shifted his gaze to meet Arthur’s. The gold was now entirely gone from his eyes, but his irises were still hot — blazing with adrenaline, with new fear that had nothing to do with the forest battle going on around them.

Even if Arthur had suspected something amiss with Merlin these past few years, he’d never had confirmation. He’d always managed to be looking the wrong way at the right time.

It was clear that Merlin didn’t know what to do, pinned there by Arthur’s gaze. He was trapped in a way he’d never been trapped before, and that knowledge was clear in the way his mouth opened a fraction, eyebrows turned up.

It would be so easy. After all, here he was at Arthur’s mercy. Many would even consider it Arthur’s responsibility. Turn in the sorcerer. Clap him in chains. Watch the flames rise. Arthur could see all of that passing across Merlin’s helpless face. All that power, yet there was no way he could stand against the king.

Merlin’s mouth closed, all words apparently forgotten. What would he say?

It was hardly even a decision. Arthur turned back to the battle, turned his back on Merlin before their gazes could lock too long, before Arthur could lose all shreds of plausible deniability. He kept his back turned, as he had for so long — as he would keep doing long after.

* * *

“And then I do… _this_.”

Arthur’s hands splayed as he practically _threw_ the dice across the table. Merlin stopped them before they could fall off the edge, and Arthur pointed an accusing finger at him.

“Hey,” Arthur said, voice rising unnaturally in pitch at the end of the word. “That’s…not fair. That’s called _cheating_ , Mer—” He hiccuped. “—lin.”

“It’s not called cheating,” Merlin chided. “It’s called trying to keep this game on track while you do your best to make a mess of it.”

“What did I roll?” Arthur said. “Did I win?”

“No,” Merlin said. “But you can roll again if you’d like.”

“If I roll again, will you have another drink?”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “I think I’ve had quite enough if I’m supposed to keep you under control.”

It was true — he’d had two cups of ale, more than his usual limit, and he could feel the tingling in his extremities. A buzzing around his cheekbones, that lightness that made his tongue a little looser. He wasn’t _drunk_ — not like Arthur, who was finishing off his third very-full cup of red wine — but certainly not not-drunk.

Arthur harrumphed. “Well, if I roll again, can I have another drink?”

“Absolutely not,” Merlin said. “I’m cutting you off.”

“You can’t cut me off,” Arthur whined. “I’m the king, Merlin.”

“And you’re losing this dice game,” Merlin said, unable to help the huge grin that came unbidden to his face. “Maybe this is my privilege for winning.”

Arthur made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a chuckle, if that was possible. He leaned back in his chair, hard. Merlin was worried for a split second that the chair would tip backward, but he knew his own mind was working too slowly to try to prevent it with magic. Arthur’s eyes widened, and the chuckle developed into something more akin to a giggle. Perhaps he could sense the instability as well.

“Alright,” Arthur said, gripping his now-empty cup. “I admit it. Merlin, you’re good at this game. At least, you’re good at this game when I’m drunk.”

Merlin huffed. “Was that a _compliment_ , Arthur Pendragon?”

“Perhaps,” Arthur said, with a bit of a slur in his voice. “I’m not afraid to admit when I’m bested by a better player.”

“Look at that,” Merlin said with amusement. “You _are_ complimenting me.”

Arthur rolled his eyes — those brilliant, blue, unfocused eyes — and shook his head. “Of course,” he said. “You’re smart, Merlin. And a damn good friend. Especially for indulging me tonight.”

Merlin waited for the other shoe to drop. He wondered what it would be. _Idiot_? _Clotpole_? But the only thing he heard was the crackling of the fire, dying as the night drew on.

Merlin picked up the dice once more. “Another round?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I really appreciate it, and I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments.
> 
> Stay safe, and much love,
> 
> Penn


End file.
